Retrospection
by Bellantara
Summary: Those who forget history may or may not be condemned to repeat it. . .


Inspired by Aqua Lion's "Reawakening". I don't own anyone or anything, just play with them now and then. Enjoy!

Every morning the guards watched the old man shuffle out of the Castle. Some days he could barely move, but he always came, back unbowed by his great age, and made his slow, painful way up the hill to the Cemetery of the Great War. There he would stay for several hours, sitting silently on a bench beside the Lion Memorial, ignoring the gawking tourists. Aside from this daily pilgrimage, he never left his rooms, never took part in Castle life.

No one knew his name anymore; he was just called the Commander. The oldest courtiers could recall him appearing at the old King's coronation, sixty years ago, in a uniform nobody recognized, but whatever unit he had commanded—if there had ever been one—had disappeared into the mists of time with the Commander's name. "Good riddance," the younger courtiers whispered behind their hands, in the corners where they congregated. "Don't know why Their Majesties keep supporting him anyway; old geezer sponging off the Crown based on what? Like that godsawful Memorial; hideous thing, ought to sell it for scrap, get back some of the taxes that have paid for the rust pile's upkeep." So the whispers went, but the Commander and the Memorial stayed on; mandated, so the High Councilor maintained, by a decree from the great Queen Allura herself.

Unfazed by the gossip, apparently oblivious to it, the Commander continued his daily ritual, rain or shine. And one day the gossips found a new, far more exciting topic to carry on about. Arus. . . was being given the honor of joining the Drule Supremacy. It was a promise of security, of prosperity that couldn't begin to be matched by the ancient and dying Galaxy Alliance. The few voices that protested, pointing out the Great War had been fought to keep Arus OUT of the Supremacy, were drowned in the clamor of approval. Negotiations were concluded with near-unseemly haste, and a date was set to welcome the Drule envoy to the Castle of Lions to sign the treaty. Still the Commander kept his vigil . . . though had anyone cared to notice, his steps slowed as the Drule banners and signs went up on the Castle grounds.

Finally the joyous day arrived. The Drule envoy was to arrive at noon; at sunrise the Commander made his slow way out of the Castle and up the hill. In the chaos of last minute preparations, no one noticed him, or the bag he carried. 30 minutes before the Drule delegation was to land, the guards realized they hadn't seen the Commander come in, and dispatched one of their number to retrieve the admittedly scruffy old man before he could be an embarrassment. Five minutes later, the runner came flying back down the hill, face white, yelling for his captain.

Soon there was quite a crowd at the foot of the Memorial, staring up at the sentinel statue. Somehow the Commander had scaled it, and was draped, clearly no longer living, across its strangely-shaped green left hand. Folded at the statue's feet was a leather jacket, clearly antique but well-cared for, with five odd discs fanned across it. The Royal Archivist, drawn by curiosity, quickly identified them as the lost, near-mythical keys to Voltron as he picked up the letter folded beneath them and read it to the mystified crowd.

 _Dear people of Arus: How easily you forget your history. One hundred and fifty years ago my teammates, my brothers and I, came to this world looking for a legend, stayed to help a beautiful princess free her people. . . and became legends ourselves._ _We put our hearts, our souls, our very lifeblood into defending a world not our own. And we won. We defeated the threat to this world that had become home to five wanderers, worked alongside its people as they rebuilt. My brothers died, one by one, old not in years but in life; still I lived, a reminder of what had gone before. But now. . .we are a legend; the veracity of our existence and exploits is debated by scholars, the people would have our memorials put away. And, most damning, Arus willingly joins the threat we vanquished, thinking the leopard has changed his spots. I promise you he has not._

 _My very name has been forgotten by you, to say nothing of my long-gone brothers. And now my time has come to an end. What few mementoes I have kept, I leave to you, people of Arus. May the gods grant that, when there is need, you have five more strangers fall from the sky. I sign myself "Commander Darrell 'Pidge' Stoker, pilot of Green Lion, member of the Voltron Force."_

A hush fell over the cemetery as the Archivist finished reading; predictably, it was one of the younger courtiers who brashly broke it. "The old man was out of his head! He'd have to be almost two hundred years old! And if he WAS Pidge, why didn't he ever say so?"

The Archivist gave him a level look. "If you had paid attention to your history tutor, you would know that Pidge Stoker was a Baltan; two hundred is at the low end of old age for them. As to why he said nothing. . ." He cleared his throat uncomfortably. "According to the journals left by Queen Allura and King Keith, Pidge sustained an injury to his throat in the final battle that claimed his voice. And no one in my memory has really sought the Commander out to try and get to know him." He looked up silently at the still figure cradled by what he knew to be Voltron as the rest of the Court trickled back to the Castle to continue their lives. "Rest well, Commander; I pray that you are wrong." The Archivist shook his head as he started back down the hill, wincing at the roar of Drule engines entering atmosphere. Behind him, Voltron glowed brightly for a split second, unnoticed by the guards retrieving Pidge's body, then was silent once more.


End file.
